


Raise the Curtains

by evocates



Series: Closed Eyes [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DC Comics, Superman (Comics)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce and Clark finally get their acts together. Things are still complicated, but it’s working out. Kind of. Hopefully?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raise the Curtains

It was probably a terrible idea to drop by the Cave at this time of the night without an invitation or a warning, Clark mused as he floated over the skylines of Gotham. He should probably turn back and arrive in the morning, after Bruce had his coffee... or he should just wait at the Watchtower until Batman arrived... or maybe he could take even further caution and simply wait until the other man call him.

And that would be _really_ soon. So soon that Clark’s hair would probably start turning grey by then.

He rolled his eyes, still floating amongst the clouds and away from human eyes. Besides, he thought wryly, if he went back home now, Lois would toss him out on his ear again—that much he knew, and could guarantee. He also knew that she would laugh at him and never let him live it down.

And, really, she was his wife, but Clark had _some_ limit of how much ammo he let her have on him at any one time.

Taking a deep breath that he didn’t really need, Clark plunged downwards, heading towards the entrance of the Cave.

***

When Clark dropped into the Cave, he walked right into a conversation.

“—won’t kill you to tell us what is bothering you lately—” Dick’s voice rang out sharp and incredulous, made sonorous due to the echoes, and Clark blinked. What was Bruce’s oldest son doing here?

And why didn’t he realise that there was a chance that he _would_ be? Was he really so caught up in his own thoughts.

Bruce’s short, terse answer cut right through that train of thought: “There’s nothing.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” instead of sounding angry, Dick just sounded tired.

Landing so lightly that neither— _none_ —of the Bats, or bats, heard him, Clark blinked again. Dick’s motorcycle was in its usual place at the cave, but it was Tim who was leaning against it, arms crossed and looking half-bored, half-curious. Dick was standing next to the computer console, one hand pressed against the top and resting his weight on his right side.

And Bruce himself was sitting in front of his computer console, shoulders slightly hunched as he stared at it. His fingers were hovering above the keys, clawed in anticipation of typing, but there wasn’t even a blinking cursor on the screen. After a while, he pushed himself from it, standing up. His cape made an appropriately dramatic swishing motion as it followed him towards the car.

“Believe what you will, Dick.”

“Uh, Dick,” Tim spoke up suddenly, and for a fraction of a second his eyes snapped over to where Clark was standing. “We have to go. It’s time to start patrol.”

Even through the cowl, Clark could see Bruce’s eyes narrow. There was a moment of silence when Dick looked at Tim, and there were volumes of communication exchanged in one gaze—how the heck did _all_ of them _do_ that?—before he nodded, moving to his motorcycle. Tim took it as a signal to walk towards his own as well, though he looked at Bruce for a long moment.

“Go back to Blüdhaven, Dick,” Bruce said, and his body was purposefully turned _away_ from where Clark was standing, badly hidden by the shadows. (Who knew that primary colours could be so conspicuous?) He knew that signal; it meant: ‘Go away; I don’t have time for you.’ Clark ignored it, and stayed there.

“I can’t—I’m patrolling Gotham tonight with my little brother,” Dick grinned at his father, and suddenly he seemed to be Robin again, all Boy Wonder charms and wit. “Since Batman will be taking care of whatever that had crawled up his ass for the past couple of days.”

“No,” Bruce said, and his scowl was dark and fierce when he _finally_ looked at Clark. Who still hadn’t spoken; who was only floating innocuously near the mouth of the cave, hidden from prying eyes—from non-Bat prying eyes. “Superman is _leaving_ and I’m going to patrol with Robin. Go home, Dick.”

“I’m not moving,” Clark refuted helpfully. “Unless it’s to come in further because I’m not going to stand here and shout at you all night.”

“ _Go away, Clark_ ,” ah, there it was, the Bat-growl that made major crime lords piss their pants and most criminals start praying for mercy.

Clark only grinned.

“Sorry,” he said, floating in further and letting his feet touched the floor. “Gravity’s caught me for the next hour or two, so I can’t move away.”

There were three simultaneous eye rolls. At least Dick had the good humour to smile at the joke.

Tim just shook his head, “Bruce, just leave Gotham to Dick and I for tonight, alright? If we need Batman’s backup we’ll call you up on the comm. link.” There’s a pause. “Alfred’s threatening to change the coffee beans he uses again.”

Was that some sort of strange Bat-code for “he’s angry at you”?

There was another long pause. Then Bruce’s shoulders relaxed for a moment, and his gauntleted hands reached up, tugging off his cowl. He shook his head slightly, turning around to look at Clark. He didn’t move another inch.

Dick and Tim looked at each other before nodding, pulling on their helmets before roaring out of the cave. Clark waited until the roars of their engines had faded before he reached up, dragging a hand through his own hair until he had mussed it, the spit-curl disappearing amongst its fellows.

He was Clark tonight. Not Superman.

“Long time no see,” he said, wryly. “I haven’t seen you at the Watchtower for some time.”

Bruce shrugged, finally unfreezing to turn away from Clark, walking back towards his console. He pressed a button, and then spoke.

“O? This is Blackbird.”

“Come in, Blackbird,” Oracle’s mechanised voice came over the speakers.

“Nightbird and Red are taking Gotham tonight. Contact me if there’s trouble.”

“They’ve already checked in, but will do,” there was a pause. “Evening, Superman.”

“Evening, Oracle.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, and Clark wondered which language he was counting to ten in. “Blackbird out.”

Silence. They were completely alone in the cave.

“Anything else you need to take care of?” he cocked his head, arms relaxed at the side despite the nervous tension slowly creeping up on him.

Bruce turned around, his spine straight as a ruler. “No.”

“Um,” Clark said intelligently. He took a deep breath. “Okay.”

There was another period of silence. Clark stared at Bruce; Bruce stared at the spot just past Clark’s shoulder. Neither of them spoke a word.

“What do you—?”

“About that night—”

They look at each other.

“You first,” they said, in perfect synchrony.

This felt mildly like a soap opera. Clark wondered, wildly, if there was going to be a laugh track sounding soon. Did Bruce have a laugh track recorded on his computer? He wouldn’t be surprised if he did—

“What do you want, Clark?” Bruce asked.

Clark’s hand came up, tugging at the edge of his own cape. He sighed quietly. “I don’t know. To talk about what happened, maybe?”

“And _what_ happened, Clark?”

Oh, here it was. The infamous, nearly-patented Bat-denial. Clark scowled.

“That night when we breathed in that powder and I punched two holes into a van,” he said flatly. “That night when I pinned you against the van and we _had sex with each other_.”

The reporter part of him told him that the description he chose was abysmal. He told it quite frankly to shut up.

“It was nothing, Clark.” Bruce was looking at him straight in the eye, almost defiant in the tilt of his head.

“Really?”

“I have been investigating into it further. It appears to be Poison Ivy’s pollen, mass produced and sold. It stimulates the pleasure centres of the brain and cause the pituitary gland to produce hormones that simulates arousal,” Bruce recited blandly. “I can show you the diagrams.”

Clark raised an eyebrow, “It was so much of nothing that you decided to avoid me, and now explain it to me very thoroughly. And you prepared diagrams.”

Bruce sent him a look that informed him that Batman really despised him, and would like to have his heat vision so he could incinerate Clark with his brain. Clark was used to that sort of thing, so he just continued to stare at Bruce.

“I wasn’t avoiding you. I was busy hunting down the rest of the drug lords and testing and researching for the drug.” _So that the people who used it could be successfully convicted; so it would never happen again_.

Clark heard all the unsaid words, but he shook his head.

“It had been four days, Bruce. One day, I can accept; two is a stretch; three is getting worrying, but four means that you are purposefully avoiding me,” he tugged his hand through his hair. “Even when you’re busy, I would still see you at least once per day. Along the corridors of the Watchtower, if nothing else.”

Batman crossed his arms, eyes cold as flint as he leaned back against the console. The silence and the shoulders and eyes were pure Batman, but the posture was still Bruce, and Clark simply took a breath.

“I was—thinking about what happened,” Clark swallowed. “And I realised—Bruce, that day, I could’ve flown back to Metropolis. I still had enough of a mind to control my powers.

“But I didn’t. I stayed with you.”

More forbidding silence. Clark bit his lip, and pushed on anyway. “The powder didn’t make me do what I already was thinking about doing in the first place.”

“What about Lois?” Bruce’s question came not as a shot, sharp and accusing. Instead, it was soft, quiet. As if testing the waters.

“She asked for pictures next time,” Clark said, and he smiled lopsidedly.

Bruce straightened suddenly, spine going stiff. “What?!”

“You’re an exception. She said a lot of things and I don’t understand all of it, but... I need you, Bruce, and she knows that. Maybe even better than I do. And she’s... she’s okay with it.”

Abruptly, Bruce pushed himself away from the console. He strode towards Clark, then past him, frowning with his hands clenched and shoulders tense.

“We can’t,” he said, and the words were like a pronouncement, crackling through the air around them. “You’re _married_ ; even if Lois is alright with it, it remains that your vows with her still stand.” Clark took a breath, but Bruce barrelled over him before he could even form the words to protest. “And you know as well as I that I won’t let anything or any _one_ interfere with my Mission. Gotham comes first, always.”

“First Gotham and its people, from Jim Gordon to Harvey Dent to even the Joker,” Clark cut in, softly. “Second, Dick, Tim, Alfred, and Barbara. Even Jason. And then the world. And then me.

“I know, Bruce.”

“You won’t even be second-best,” Bruce told him, eyes steady.

“I know; I’m the same, remember? Metropolis may not need me as much as Gotham needs you, but... the world will always come first, even before Lois and Ma. You’ll be in fourth place, at best.”

Bruce reached up a hand, wiped it across his face.

“I will still have to keep up my cover,” he continued. “Bruce Wayne will be appearing on society pages with a starlet on both arms.”

Clark laughed, “They might have the photographs, Bruce, but I know you better than they ever will.” There was a pause. “Besides, I make for _terrible_ arm decoration. Lois always said so. I think it’s the clothes.”

“You haven’t disputed my first point, Clark.”

“I’m not breaking my promise. I’m not lying if she _knows_.”

Bruce opened his mouth, and Clark knew that it was probably be another caustic remark, or even another rejection. So he stepped forward, placed his hand against Bruce’s mouth—silenced him.

“How long have you been thinking about this if you have practically _rehearsed_ rejection lines?”

There was another drawn-out moment (he was really starting to hate them) as Bruce just _looked_ at him—and then Clark was being pulled forward and dragged around and his back slammed against the Batmobile and Bruce’s mouth was on his, hot and forceful. He opened his mouth immediately, darting his tongue out to meet Bruce’s. His arms were moving, wrapping around the other man, with a hand dropped to press against the small of his back, crushing their bodies together. Their mouths fitted together perfectly, though Clark had to take a few seconds to get used to not having to bend down.

And a part of him was giddily saying that this was their first kiss. _This_ was what was most important. Even more than what happened four days ago, _this_ was... a promise. A confirmation. This wasn’t something forced upon them both, but something they both _wanted_.

Something they both asked for, and granted each other.

Clark inhaled sharply, feeling his head spin when he finally pulled back. Bruce’s heartbeat was like thunder in his ears, and Clark could see his chest heaving slightly. Then, he stepped back, and moved towards the computer console again.

“You should leave,” he said, staring determinedly at the console.

For a moment, Clark could only stare at him, mouth agape like an idiot. “What?”

Bruce sighed, as if he was talking to an idiot who was testing his patience. “ _Go home_ , Clark.”

“Oh, no,” Clark said, narrowing his eyes as the pieces started to fit together. “You’re _not_ chasing me out after that. All of that.”

Turning around again, Bruce gave the other man his patented Bat-glare. Clark wasn’t fazed, striding forward until they were only an inch apart and every breath Bruce took—even and slow, of course, because he had always managed to control his reactions so very quickly—brushed against Clark’s skin; against Clark’s mouth.

“That,” Bruce began, refusing to back down from either Clark’s proximity or his gaze even though he refused to refer to the kiss as what it was, “just proves that this is entirely _inappropriate_.”

“How? Why?” Clark challenged. He took a deep breath, calming himself down and got rid of the red edging around his eyes. “Because it feels right? Because you _wanted it_ , Bruce? I—” he raised a hand, and then dropped it back down. “It’s not about the sex, damnit. It’s that—what do I have to do to get you to just _admit_ that there is _something_ between us? To get to stop trying to deny what it is?”

“Fine,” Bruce snapped, backing away and crossing his arms. “Then let’s take a hypothetical situation. Presume I did. Then what? What do you _want_ , Clark?”

Hypothetical—this man was utterly _impossible._

“Whatever you are willing to give,” Clark replied, his voice becoming soft and sincere even though frustration edged the words. His blue eyes like twin beacons of light that pierced through the shadows of the cave. “I’m not going to force anything on you, but neither am I willing to _lie_ that I don’t want you, Bruce.”

Bruce’s lips thinned. “I won’t be your _mistress_ , Clark.”

“I’m not asking you to be that either!” Clark exclaimed. “Is that what you think I really want?”

“Wouldn’t it be convenient for you, then?” Eyebrow raised, Bruce’s voice was sardonic. “To have your wife to go home to, and me to screw on the side when you get bored of her.”

That was the second time in one night that this man had managed to shock him into deep silence.

“I—God, you’re my _best friend_ , Bruce. You can’t believe that _that’s_ all I want from you!”

“It makes sense, actually,” he said, infuriatingly calm. “Far more than anything else.”

“I don’t want that! I—just... want us to take things further. We’re best friends, _partners_ —but, Bruce, I’m also in love with you.”

_And I know that you love me as well, in one way or another. Or else you wouldn’t have even tolerated this conversation at all. Or else your heart wouldn’t be hammering like that, out of your control despite your calm eyes._

“You’re in love with Lois,” Bruce countered flatly, matter-of-factly.

“You know, if you keep mentioning my wife during this, I’ll start getting the idea that you want her instead of me,” Clark said, quirking his lips up slightly.

“If you’re going to treat this as a _joke..._ ” Bruce threatened, teeth bared as he started to turn away. His eyes were dark, troubled like the sea roiling during a thunderstorm.

Sighing, Clark reached out, grabbing him by the wrist and tugging him closer. There was a spark of hope that burst out into fireworks within him when he realised that Bruce didn’t resist.

“I love you, Bruce. I love you and Lois both,” Clark confessed, eyes piercing as he stared into Bruce’s.

“You’re not making any _sense_ ,” Bruce said, and the frustration in his voice was obvious. He still wasn’t pulling away.

Clark reached out and, very slowly, cups Bruce’s cheek with his hand. He didn’t get punched for it, so he started to stroke against the cheekbone, following the curve gently.

“I know. Believe me, I didn’t know it’s possible either, but,” he took a deep breath. “I mean it.”

There was a million and one things flashing in the depth of Bruce’s midnight-blue eyes, a thousand things that Clark couldn’t read. Then, he closed his eyes, and tipped his head back.

Permission, as far as the Batman could give it. As much as _Bruce_ would let himself give.

And Clark took it. Leaned down, and pressed his lips against Bruce’s. Let himself just _take_ without asking more, without needing to clarify further with words. Because that was how it always was between them, wasn’t it? A wordless understanding; a million and one emotions exchanged with one glance, one touch.

Like right now.

The kiss this time was far more gentle—just a soft, delicate pressure until Bruce decided to part his lips, then Clark’s hand reached out, hand curling around the back of his best friend’s neck, pulling him in and nipping at his bottom lip until Bruce opens his mouth.

It was always unspoken. Written in code; on the paths their hands took on each other’s skin. Bruce inhaled sharply, drawing Clark’s exhale into his own lungs as his fingers clawed at his back, up to his neck, tugging at his hair before burying themselves in the night-dark strands. He felt himself being pulled in even more, until he could feel Bruce’s heart thumping against his own chest even through the Kevlar armour. Until it seemed that the two of them were melting against each other, and Clark didn’t know where he ended or where Bruce began.

Their hearts roared as one, thundering and staccato, and Clark could barely stop himself from tearing apart Bruce’s armour with his bare hands.

It was an eternity and all too soon before they pulled away from each other. Bruce needed to breathe, even if Clark didn’t—but Clark felt his breath quickening anyway, gulping down the cool cave air as if it was his salvation.

Bruce’s pupils were blown, blackness swallowing the blue as he stared at Clark. His hands had fallen to rest on Clark’s shoulders, clenched tight—and even tighter when Clark leaned in against, pressed his forehead against Bruce’s until their breaths ghosted across each other’s skin and every exhale was a phantom kiss.

“ _Bruce_ ,” Clark said, because there was no other words that remained in his head.

And Bruce smiled—the smallest upward quirk of the lips—and it was more precious than a thousand diamonds, than the laughter and cheers of a thousand people. Clark reached up and pressed his thumb against the bottom lip, and Bruce’s tongue darted out, licked against it, traced the blunt top of the nail and Clark’s shiver started from the tip of his spine and ended at his heels.

Then, suddenly, Bruce was pulling away, bringing his own gauntlets to his lips and tugging on them with his teeth. Clark was transfixed by the hints of white, white teeth against the black, by the harsh, almost tremulous movements as Bruce got rid of his gloves and cupped Clark’s face gently, as if his touch would bruise him—or...

“I’m not going anywhere,” Clark said, leaning into the touch.

“Good,” Bruce’s voice was low, hoarse with want and they were kissing again, teeth grazing against lips and nibbling, biting. Their tongues darted out to meet each other. Bruce’s grip on him was so strong, pulling him forward as he devoured his mouth, that Clark was sure that were he anyone else, he was going to have fingers-shaped bruises on his face.

But he wasn’t anyone else, so he didn’t care. His fingers started to trail up and down Bruce’s torso again, trying to find the hidden catches but he couldn’t concentrate. His fingers scrabbled at the Kevlar, frustrated and so, so tempted to just rip it all off so he could _touch_.

Only the thought that Bruce would kill him—or worse, stop touching him—made him just rest his hands on Bruce’s hips, almost trembling. Waiting for further permission, because he wasn’t going to push further; wasn’t going to take what this man wasn’t willing to give.

Bruce was pulling away again, hands tracing down Clark’s face to his shoulders down to his torso, and Clark could only stare at him as he fell to his knees in front of Clark. His feet were tucked underneath himself, broad, powerful shoulders slightly turned inwards—and for a moment, Clark thought that he looked like a worshipper, giving himself over to his God.

It was ridiculous and vain and Clark knew he shouldn’t think like this, but Bruce was utterly beautiful like this. With his head tilted up, lips red and swollen from their kisses, eyes night-dark—and still fully dressed in his armour, with the teasing whiteness of his hands and wrists clashing against the black. The contrast was like silk running across the blade of a knife. The perfect mixture of Batman and Bruce Wayne, power and beauty inexorably entwined, on his knees in front of Clark.

Clark reached out, cupped Bruce’s jaw with his hand, feeling the fragile bone and skin under his hand; feeling the thrum of blood running underneath it, and his breath tripped at the thought of the sheer _gift_ he had been given.

“ _Clark_ ,” Bruce breathed out, and despite the rapidity of his heartbeat, his breaths still came slow and even. It was really unfair, especially when Clark _felt_ that breath against his crotch, hot and wet and— _god_ , Bruce was leaning in, lips parting and _mouthing_ Clark through his uniform and Clark thought that his brain had probably short-circuited.

He breathed out shakily, tried to mumble Bruce’s name somehow but his throat was closed and his tongue was too heavy. They wouldn’t cooperate, and he could only move his hands—into Bruce’s hair, down to his shoulders, clenching around the armour hard enough to be felt through it, fingernails digging _into_ the Kevlar and he wanted so badly to just tear it. To feel bare skin; to taste Bruce’s scars with the tips of his fingers and to feel his blood and bones underneath his hands.

And at the same time he knew that keeping the armour on was something that Bruce didn’t do for anyone else. Bruce’s fingers were slowly stripping him, peeling away layers of bright red and blue and exposing Kryptonian skin to the cold cave air; exposing his farm-gained tan to Bruce’s eyes, stripping away Superman to the essence of Clark Kent.

But Bruce... when Bruce had only his cowl down and his eyes dark were like this and the armour on and kneeling at Clark’s feet...

It was more intimate, more honest, than if he was completely naked.

Because Clark could be just Clark without being Superman, but Bruce _was_ Batman, down to the tiny scar that went from the back of his ear to disappear into his hair. He wore Batman with every scar, with every breath, and Clark knew this enough that he didn’t ask Bruce to take off anything else.

( _Whatever you are willing to give_.)

With his eyes on Clark’s, burning like blue fire as he leaned in and took him into his mouth, Bruce tore down his shields and gave Clark a glittering, broken piece of his own heart. In that one moment before he finally lowered his gaze, Clark finally _understood_ what he had been given.

And his hands trembled as he gripped onto Bruce’s shoulders, as his toes curled inwards and his breaths came so sharp and fast that they seem to pierce against the walls of his throat. It wasn’t just the pleasure of the act, of having Bruce’s hot, wet mouth surrounding him—it was the fact that this was _Batman_ on his knees, giving him this pleasure, this heat. Showing him every part of himself without shields.

Giving him a piece of his heart to cherish, to hold—to _trust_ him to not drop it or crush it or to break it into further pieces. Giving him something that Bruce had always kept to himself and guarded jealously; letting him hold something that only Gotham and _maybe_ Bruce’s family had even known existed.

Even though he said that he loved this man, Clark didn’t know how _much_ until now. He didn’t know until he looked into those fierce eyes and watched as his cock disappeared into lips kissed-swollen by his own mouth. The emotion swept over him like a tidal wave, like a tsunami, and for a moment he was drowning, unable to breathe as he dropped his head back and tried to breathe.

It wasn’t just that he would gladly die for this man—anyone in the world had that privilege. They were both heroes, after all—giving their lives for the innocent, for those who needed to be saved, was part of the job.

No—Bruce was someone whom he would _live_ for. Whom he would get out of bed each morning just to see; whom he would fight all the harder and claw with all his strength against death just so he would see the smile of again. For this man Clark wouldn’t let himself be dragged down by the tides, but fight his way up with all the determination he had in his body, because he had to live to see him again.

He wouldn’t die for him. He would _live_ for his sake. Live because if he died, the piece of Bruce’s heart that he held so carefully in his hands would drop to the ground, and be smashed into powder.

And Clark would never allow that to happen.

When he came, his eyes were open. Fixed upon Bruce, looking at him as if he had just found his salvation written on every inch of his skin.

Bruce covered his mouth, swallowing before he pulled away. But he didn’t stand up, remaining on his knees and looking up to Clark, and there was wariness in his gaze. He knew what he had given, what Clark held—but he wasn’t _sure_ of Clark’s reaction.

And Clark’s eyes warmed as he sank down to his knees as well, reaching forward to tangle his fingers in Bruce’s short-cropped hair before he leaned forward, kissing him again and tasting himself.

They started to stand, straightening as Clark started to back the other man back, turning and shifting until he made sure that, this time, it was Bruce’s back that was against the Batmobile. He stepped back, tugging on the end of his own uniform before he lost his patience and stripped at super-speed, leaving his clothes and boots a pile on the floor behind him. He dragged another hand through his hair, messing it up completely until the usual neat, Superman hairstyle was entirely destroyed.

Clark Kent stood before Bruce, reaching out to trace his fingers against Bruce’s jaw. His eyes were an unearthly blue, glowing in the dimness of the cave before he closed them, shoulders loose and relaxed, the smallest of smiles curving up his lips.

Then he dropped to his knees.

Whatever Bruce gave, Clark would return twice-fold. He would show him just _how_ precious he saw the gift was; just how much Bruce’s trust meant to him.

“Clark—” Bruce’s heartbeat was so _fast_. Clark looked up at him, naked as the day he was born and with his hair in his face. Bruce’s hand reached up, brushed the strands back, and he was swallowing hard, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” Clark said. “But I want to _show_ you.”

“You—” the rest of Bruce’s words disappeared into a groan when Clark reached up, pressed his hands against his crotch and _pushed_ , straining the Kevlar and the armour until he could _feel_ Bruce’s heat, straining towards his hand and trying to burst through the shields covering in. He lidded his eyes heavily for a moment before he dug his finger in, dragging downwards and the armour parted for him like he was cutting through paper.

Clark Kent, without his glasses and with Superman’s strength. Tightly leashed, but present nonetheless. Kal-El and Clark Kent and Superman all at once, twisted into one being that was just... him. Just him, without the labels of names, without the worries of whether or not this was the right persona to use at this moment.

Only Lois and his parents had been ever seen this—seen _him_ —like this.

“I’ve never done this before,” Clark said, all Kansas farm boy bashfulness as he looked at Bruce. But his hand was slowly encircling the base of Bruce’s cock, stroking the vein underneath and he _knew_ that the contrast was what was making Bruce’s nostrils flare out like that.

“Slow,” Bruce said, and his hand was cupping Clark’s jaw, thumb brushing against Clark’s lips. And Clark’s mouth opened, took the thumb between his teeth and licked it—let Bruce feel the inhuman heat and silkiness of his mouth. He didn’t hold back any of it. Not now.

And Bruce—Bruce _knew_. His breath stuttered as he looked at Clark before he took a long, deep breath, tilting his head back and baring his throat. Shifting until he was leaning against the car, spreading his legs.

“Slow,” Clark agreed. He took Bruce into his mouth cautiously, tasting him before taking him in further, covering his teeth with his lips. Bruce’s gaze was hot on his skin, twin lasers as if _he_ was the one with heat vision, and Clark made a sound at the back of his throat at it, something like how a moan would sound if it was strangled.

Then, suddenly, Bruce gasped— _gasped_ like air had suddenly been punched out of his lungs. His hands turned into claws in Clark’s hair, pulling and tugging and it would’ve been painful had Clark been anyone else, and his eyes were wild and surprised. Clark stared at him before he _smiled_. Took Bruce deeper into his mouth before he pressed his tongue against the underside, and then swirled it around the head. Listened to Bruce’s sharp little gasps and felt those blunt nails scrape uselessly against invulnerable skin.

Then—he _vibrated_. He made sounds far softer than what the human ear could pick up, letting the sound waves thrum within his mouth, against Bruce’s cock—

There was a moment when time seemed to stop, before Bruce _shouted_ , hips thrusting forward and Clark reminded himself that he didn’t _need_ to breathe as he took him in and he swallowed as Bruce came. He kept reminding himself that he didn’t need to breathe, used it as a mantra and shoved down the gag reflex; focused on the sound of Bruce’s heartbeat in his ears.

It was like a stampede of wild horses.

“Clark,” Bruce said, and his voice sound so hoarse and surprised and Clark pulled away, grinning up to his best friend, to his new lover, who was staring at him as if he had grown another head.

Though, that would probably be less of a shock.

Taking a deep breath, Bruce seemed to regain his composure. Enough to raise an eyebrow, anyway.

“Are you _sure_ that was your first time doing that?”

“Absolutely sure,” Clark said, and he grinned again, moving up and in until he was pressing Bruce against the Batmobile, the warmth of his skin surely sinking through the armour to surround Bruce. “I learn fast.”

”Uh huh,” Bruce said, and he quirked a smile. “So... is this one of your superpowers, then? The ability to give a super-blowjob?”

Clark stared at him. Choked on air. “You did _not_ just say that.”

“What didn’t I say?” Bruce said, tone entirely arch. Clark’s grinned widened even further, until he felt as if the top half of his head was going to fall off. He cupped Bruce’s face, stroked his hand down until he was tugging at the neck cover of the armour.

And Bruce leaned into him, their foreheads touching again as those piercing blue eyes looked into his as if trying to divine his secrets. Clark didn’t look away, didn’t even shift his gaze—he had already shown Bruce everything. Given him all of it.

Took that piece of Bruce’s heart and place it inside his own; then took his whole heart out of him and gave it to Bruce.

“So,” Bruce said, and a flicker of uncertainty coloured his tone. Clark knew what he was going to ask, and he tilted his head, let their lips brush together.

“We’re okay,” he reassured. “We’re more than okay, in fact.”

“Lois?” and here, again, Bruce’s voice was perfectly modulated, perfectly masked. Clark saw the doubts anyhow.

“Lois is okay too,” he paused, and then tilted his head to the side slightly. It probably made him look like some sort of ridiculously oversized bird. “I promised her pictures, though.”

Bruce shrugged, a ripple of movement that Clark felt more than saw.

“I turned off the cameras.”

“Damnit,” Clark said, without much heat. He was sitting grinning foolishly, and Bruce was smiling a tiny little smile—which was the equivalent for him. “Guess we have to do it again, huh?”

Bruce looked at him appraisingly before shaking his head, but he didn’t pull away. “I think we have to rethink your nickname.”

“Eh?”

“I don’t think boy scouts give super-blowjobs, _Superman_.”

_End_


End file.
